


And Not to Yield

by ASongofIceandHope (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, F/M, Pretty sure Tom is his own warning, Rape/Non-con Elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-20
Packaged: 2018-11-23 10:26:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11400663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ASongofIceandHope
Summary: It's common knowledge that you shouldn't touch things in Borgin and Burke's. But when Hermione, Harry, and Draco all reach for a cursed object at the same time, they find themselves thrown through time to 1948 when a certain Dark Lord has youth, vigor, power, and at least two horcruxes.Post-Battle of Hogwarts. Partially DH compliant; disregards Epilogue.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Oh look, another Tomione time-travel fic. I hope this one feels different, because I think it is.   
> Note: This Tom will probably be the biggest asshole Tom that I've written. He does what he wants, lol.

“I really don't think this is a good idea, Harry.”

After the war, Hermione thought she would be done once and for all being the voice of reason among her friends. But when Harry decided to follow Draco Malfoy down Knockturn Alley while the Weasleys were off on holiday visiting Charlie in Macedonia, Hermione regressed to her childhood state as the know-it-all mum friend who tried to reason with everyone.

“Obviously he's up to something, Hermione,” Harry turned to her. “We stood up for the prat at his trial, but he's still up to his old tricks. After all we did for him…”

Hermione scowled and crossed her arms over her chest as Harry started off in the same direction Draco had ventured. She knew it was foolish to let Harry go into Knockturn Alley without any backup, so she followed behind him. Just as she caught up with him, he came to a sudden halt, causing her to crash into him. He grabbed her forearm to steady her so she didn't fall. Much to her surprise, Draco slipped into Borgin and Burke’s. Trying not to draw any attention to themselves, the two of them crept into the shop and hid among the various shelves that housed more Dark objects than Hermione cared to be around after spending a whole year hunting horcruxes. 

“… your father’s collection…”

“… trying to clean it up…”

“… very, very expensive, Mr. Malfoy…”

Harry, while trying to listen in to Draco’s conversation with Arcturus Burke, bumped into a shelf. A case clattered to the floor as Burke disappeared into the back of the shop and Malfoy turned, glaring at the two of them.

“Eavesdropping again, Potter?” he sneered. “I thought you would have learned.”

“I could say the same of you, Malfoy,” Harry retorted. 

Hermione rolled her eyes and shot Harry a look. “Please, you're acting like children. If you two could just get over yourselves for two minutes…” she muttered as she bent over and picked up the box that had fallen. When she did, it clicked open, and nestled in a bed of black velvet was a time-turner. Her eyes brightened; she hadn't seen a time-turner since they had all been destroyed during the battle in the Department of Mysteries. But upon further examination, it became obvious that the time-turner she now was examining was no ordinary device. 

For starters, it was silver instead of the typical gold. It seemed expensive, as there were little emeralds inlaid in it, which was a strange feature for a time-turner.

“Merlin, Granger, didn't anyone ever tell you not to touch anything in this store?” Draco huffed as he tugged the box from her hands. The sudden, jerky motion caused the time-turner to tumble from its spot, only to land in between the three of them. They all reached for it at the exact same time, and as soon as they did, Hermione knew something was wrong. 

The windows in the rickety old shop began to rattle, and the floor began to shake. They all tried to move away from each other, but they were unable to move, as if they were stuck to the floor. Harry and Hermione exchanged horrified looks before turning their attention back to the small silver device on the floor. The time-turner glowed on the floor and began to float, its chain wrapping around the three of them before it erupted in a burst of blinding light that swallowed them all. 

It was unlike any sensation Hermione had ever experienced in her life. She felt like she was being warmed from the inside, but not in a pleasant, fire-whiskey sort of way, but in more of a Merlin’s-beard-did-I-eat-an-asteroid sort of way. It felt like her insides were being melted down and rearranged as the world seemed to fall away from her. She couldn't see Harry or Draco, but judging from the sounds of screaming around her she imagined they were feeling the same things she was. 

If they lived and didn't lose their minds or something equally tragic in the process, she wouldn't hesitate to tell Harry “I told you so” about following Draco down Knockturn Alley.

But the likelihood of any of them living to see the light of day seemed to be fading by the minute as the burning feeling subsided into a dangerously fast falling sensation. Hermione fumbled for her wand, even though her muscles ached from the earlier sensation.

“ _Arresto Momentum_!" she managed, causing them to land softly on the ground. 

They all were slow to get up, and Hermione groaned slightly as she sat up. As she looked around, she realized they were definitely somewhere in Diagon Alley, but she wasn't quite sure where. Also, the time-turner had disappeared. 

Draco was the first to get up, dusting himself off with a grumble. “The next time I see Burke, I'm going to give him a piece of my mind,” he huffed. “Keeping something like that out on display!” His muttering and complaining faded into the background as Hermione got to her feet and wandered out of the alleyway. It was nighttime, and the streets were all but abandoned. As someone who had experience with time-turners and therefore had read about time-turner accidents before, she knew the first thing to do when you didn't know when you were was to get something that would have a date on it, like a newspaper or a letter. 

Finding a paper didn't prove very difficult, as one drifted down the sidewalk of the main thoroughfare. Hermione snatched it, but dropped it as soon as she read the date: 

23 November, 1948.

“Hermione, what is it?” Harry ran up behind her. “Hermione, what's wrong?” 

She shook her head and began to think. It was 1948. What was going on then? World War II was over in the muggle world. The Cold War was just beginning for the Americans, and Attlee was Prime Minister of Great Britain. Dumbledore had defeated Grindelwald in the wizarding world and had begun to gain a reputation with the Ministry. And what… what was Voldemort up to? Surely he wasn't much older than they were in 1948. Hermione shuddered at the thought of encountering him.

“Granger, what the bloody hell is the matter?” Draco huffed. 

“We… We went back in time,” she said. 

“Well, obviously,” he rolled his eyes. “We must have gone back just a few hours to the previous evening—“

“I'm afraid not,” Hermione sighed. “It's 1948. The time-turner sent us back fifty years.”

“You're bluffing.”

Hermione frowned and pointed out ads for old broomsticks in the Quidditch Supplies Shop. Draco spluttered in shock and Harry frowned. “You're thinking exactly what I'm thinking, aren't you?” she asked him. Being one of his best friends, she knew how Harry’s mind worked. And he would immediately think about how the greatest threat the wizarding world has ever seen was a young man right now.

“He's twenty-one going on twenty-two right now,” Harry told her. “If what I've learned since the war ended is right, he'd be a shop-boy at Borgin and Burke’s right now. And… I think he only has two horcruxes. The diary and the ring.”

When Draco realized who they were talking about, he paled. “You mean the Dark Lord? He's alive right now?” he hissed.

“Yes, and he's going by Tom Riddle publicly,” Hermione stated. “Not many people know about Lord Voldemort now. He won't surface until… oh, 1960 or so? When Riddle’s in his thirties?” She looked to Harry who nodded in confirmation. 

“He is, but Hermione… what are we going to do until we have a plan? We haven't any money or a place to stay,” he reminded. 

The reality of that set in and she felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

“What do you mean we haven't any money?” Draco snorted. “We've got Gringotts, and I have the Malfoy Family Ring. The goblins serve whoever has that ring regardless; they've been doing it that way since my grandfather.” Harry and Hermione were both shocked, but Draco probably figured they needed to stick together if they were to make it back.

“Who's also our age right now,” Harry stated. “I've got a couple sickles. That should get us a room for the night at the Leaky Cauldron.” Hermione nodded in agreement; she had some spending money as well, and she imagined they would have to put it to good use if they planned on blending in. Draco’s robes probably were suitable for the time period, but she and Harry were both in muggle clothes, and Hermione was certain that no one was ready to see young people in jumpers and jeans. 

They headed off in the direction of the Leaky Cauldron, and the proprietor didn't bat an eye at a young witch and two wizards needing a room for the night. 

When they got upstairs, Hermione cast a quick Scourgify on the sheets and blankets. Much to her horror, the three of them would be sharing a king-sized bed. Nether Draco nor Harry seemed very pleased about the current living arrangements, but as the room was sparsely furnished, they simply grumbled. 

“We’ll come up with a plan tomorrow,” she decided as she shamelessly stripped down to her undershirt and knickers before climbing into bed. “After we do a little shopping.”

“Shopping?” Harry asked incredulously as he undressed down to his t-shirt and boxers. Hermione didn't feel weird about sharing a bed with him and scooted toward the middle to make room for him. 

“Our clothes will draw attention to us, which means Riddle will probably suspicious if we turn up in Borgin and Burke’s. We’ll also need a cover story, since we’re clearly magical but didn't go to school with him,” she explained. Draco nodded and was blushing slightly as he undressed down to his boxers and got into bed as well. Hermione could honestly say she had never had such strange bedfellows before. 

“I'll try to get into my family vault tomorrow as well,” Draco told them as he climbed in on the other side of Hermione. “Erm, well… goodnight, Potter. Granger.”

“Goodnight, Malfoy,” Harry and Hermione stated before turning off the lights.

*****

The next morning, Hermione almost forgot where she was until she realized she had two young men practically draped over her. Harry had drooled on his pillow, and Draco was snoring softly as she gently pushed them away from her and climbed out of bed. 

They really were back in time.

A maid delivered the morning’s paper and Hermione sat down to read it while sipping her tea. It was rather boring; nothing exciting or noteworthy was really happening in the wizarding world. 

Once Harry and Draco were around they discussed their stories before they left for the day. They had devised a tale that they were all pure-blooded cousins from a wizarding family in France. Harry and Hermione were siblings, while Draco was their cousin on their mother’s side. Since the French didn't track pure-blooded families and names as passionately as their British counterparts, they selected two different surnames and just went with it. Harry and Hermione assumed the surname Moreau, while Draco became Draco Chevalier. Once it was decided, they made their way to their first stop of the day which was Gringotts. Draco went in, and was gone for what seemed like hours. When he returned, he had a smug grin on his face and a pouch full of galleons. 

“Are you sure no one will realize it's missing?” Harry asked. 

“Certainly,” he replied. “It's funny; they thought I was my grandfather, so I just let them believe it. Strange time, this is.” Hermione snorted and started off in the direction of Madame Malkin’s, only to be stopped by Draco. “Oh no. If you want to be convincing when you go into Borgin and Burke’s, you won't want plain old robes from Madame Malkin’s. Well, those are fine for Potter, I suppose. But most pure-blooded witches don't shop there.”

“And just where do they shop, Malfoy?” she raised a brow.

“Twilfitt and Tatting’s,” he answered. “A favorite of my mother’s and my grandmother before her. Considering Druella Rosier went to school with the Dar—Riddle, I imagine it exists now. And as the main financier of this expedition, I want my money to go where I want it to go. So Potter,” he handed him some coins, “go get measurements at Malkin’s. I'll take Hermione to Tatting’s and get her settled before coming back to you.”

“And what makes you think you can give me orders, Malfoy?” Harry hissed.

“I'm the one with the money, so therefore I'm the one with the power,” he retorted. “And it's Chevalier now; best start getting used to keeping up pretenses, Moreau.” 

Hermione knew he was right, so she shot Harry a pleading look and he reluctantly agreed. They then parted ways, with Draco taking her to a very high-end shop ran by a fussy woman who was undoubtedly a pure-blood witch who didn't need to bother working. Draco left a fair sum of money with Hermione, who was currently being berated about her hair, before he left to get his own measurements taken. 

“Dreadful, dreadful, dreadful!” the older witch scolded. “A few charms and potions and you might pass for a lovely little thing!” Hermione tried her best not to get offended, and let the witch get to work. 

“Um, no green,” Hermione stated as the witch pulled a bolt of emerald green fabric. She already had a few robes being made with magic, and Hermione liked the colors of them; a burgundy, and a cheery yellow, along with a light grey, and pink. 

“Why not? It would look very becoming on you,” the witch pointed out. 

Hermione had to remind herself momentarily that Hermione Moreau had attended Beauxbatons, and therefore did not care about silly Hogwarts rivalries. “Very well,” she sighed. 

When she left, the sets of robes that had been made for her were boxed and wrapped, and Hermione paid with the galleons Draco had given her. Between the shoes and the gowns, he had given her just enough to pay for it all. She wondered how much Narcissa Malfoy’s wardrobe cost back in the nineties, but the mere thought made her head spin. 

She wore a royal blue day dress out with matching shoes, and found the boys wearing new robes as well when she exited the shop.

“This is much better. We blend in,” she said.

“Well, we would if you did something with that hair,” Draco snorted. Hermione noticed that even Harry had gone about taming his normally wild hair, and she bit her lip. Madame Primpernelle’s was just down the street, and Hermione knew she could get Sleekeazy’s and some makeup there, but she didn't want to be anymore of a burden to Draco. She then remembered her own money in her purse, and fished out the galleon and few sickles. 

With a fair few charms and the frustration of Madame Primpernelle herself, Hermione emerged from the shop looking more like a proper 1940s young woman. Her lips were painted a cool shade of red, and her hair was styled in easy waves. 

“Okay, so now we look the part,” Harry decided. “But how do we get to Riddle? We can't just waltz into Borgin and Burke’s. Besides, I'm fairly sure he's a Legilimens at this point.”

“Well, we need a reason for being over here,” Hermione said as they sat down at Florean Fortescue’s Ice-Cream Parlor. She thought for a moment after ordering a scoop of Granny Smith ice cream. Her eyes landed on a man reading the _Daily Prophet_ ; a small snippet of it declared that the Quidditch team, Puddlemire United, had suffered a loss of a Seeker and were in London looking for a replacement. “Harry! That's it!” she pointed at the article. “You and Draco can both try out for Puddlemire United! If anyone asks, you came from France to play Quidditch.”

Both boys exchanged looks, and found that the story was clever, so they went off to buy new brooms and equipment. The try-outs were slated for the weekend, which gave them about two-and-a-half days to get ready for them. 

Harry found a place to practice flying on the broomstick he bought, which he complained was like trying to fly a muggle stove because It was so slow. Still, he took to flying as he always had, and was brushed up in no time. Draco was the same way, and Hermione imagined they would enjoy themselves at try-outs come Saturday. They would just have to lay low until then, and wait until their plans became more certain before confronting Tom Riddle.

After flying around for the better half of the afternoon, the boys returned to the Leaky Cauldron with Hermione for supper. They were served a hearty stew and butterbeer, and began to eat their meal in comfortable silence when a voice at the bar forced them all to freeze. While it was free of the raspiness it would later have, the soft baritone was easily recognizable. Draco’s spoon clattered into his bowl and the three exchanged glances, not wanting to turn around and draw attention to themselves. 

“… it's been a long day, so a shot of fire-whiskey, please,” the voice purred. 

Hermione had never taken the Dark Lord to be a man with vices beyond murder and torture, and her curiosity got the best of her, so she turned. 

Whatever she had been expecting, he certainly was not. He was tall (not that the Voldemort of her own time hadn't been, but she had never noticed nor cared), with broad shoulders and a narrow waist. Riddle already carried himself with an air of superiority that was not typical of a shop-boy. From the back, she couldn't get a good sense of how he styled his hair but it seemed wavy and soft. Part of her wanted him to turn at least to the side so she could see his profile, but she didn't want to risk him catching her staring.

“Was he a handsome bloke, Harry?” she whispered to him as she continued to stare against her better judgment. Harry shrugged.

“Dunno,” he admitted. “I suppose if you're into that tall, dark, and brooding thing, perhaps.”

Hermione had always been a sucker for those types, as far as literature went. As a young teenager, she had adored the solemn, sullen heroes of classic literature; Austen’s Mr. Darcy, Charlotte Bronte’s Mr. Rochester, and her sister’s Heathcliff. Of course, in real life she had been drawn to a more… Mr. Bingley sort of man, so she supposed she only liked those types if they were purely fictional. 

But when Riddle turned around, it took all of her strength not to gawk. He looked like a movie star. In fact, he reminded her of her grandmother's favorite actor in his younger years, Sir Laurence Olivier. Before he caught her, she turned around and moved her spoon through her stew absentmindedly. 

“Are you blushing?” Draco asked before he snuck a peek for himself. “Merlin’s beard.”

Hermione realized then that Harry was the only one who had ever seen a good-looking—no, normal-looking, she corrected herself—version of Voldemort before. All Draco had ever seen was the serpentine demon from the future, same as Hermione. She found herself thinking it was a real shame that he did such a thing, but Hermione imagined he didn't care in his madness. 

“I don't think I've ever seen you lot in here.” 

The three of them all froze, and Hermione hoped that Riddle assumed he had just startled them. Harry was the one to turn then, and he sneered at Riddle.

“Do you make it your business to know everyone else's business?” he inquired.

Hermione shot Harry a look before meeting Riddle’s gaze. She immediately wished she hadn't, as the deep, dark orbs that had fixed on her were almost hypnotic. Her mind was screaming at her to speak, but her mouth seemed incapable of forming words.

“I apologize,” she eventually stated. “My brother isn't always good with strangers. I'm sure he meant no offense. And you're correct in assuming you haven't seen us here before as you wouldn't have. We've just come from Amiens, France. My brother and my cousin intend to try out for an English Quidditch team.”

“Your English is very good for not being from here,” he quipped. 

“Our _au pair_ was English,” Draco explained smoothly. Riddle seemed unimpressed by his response, but didn't push it. 

Riddle turned to walk out and while the boys were seemingly satisfied by getting out of an encounter alive, Hermione was a little irked by him. She had expected a greater challenge when they first met him; not just some prying asshole in the middle of a pub.

“Pardon, but I don't think I caught your name?” she called after him. 

He stopped in the doorway and turned, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. 

“Tom Riddle,” he supplied. “And you are?”

“Hermione Moreau.”

“Well, Miss Moreau, it was… charming to meet you,” he stated. “Best try and stay warm; you'll find winters here can be rightfully unpleasant. Wouldn't want someone like yourself to become any more… frigid… than you already are.” Without another word, he walked out. Hermione gaped at him and the boys weren't sure whether to laugh or be absolutely terrified.

Lord Voldemort himself had basically called Hermione a frigid bitch.

Harry wasn't sure if the Dark Lord had a death wish, but he knew that Hermione was not going to let that one go.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tom begins to be upset. Hermione gets answers. Dumbledore has... reservations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! Thanks for all the kudos and the comment! I was so happy to see all of that. 
> 
> Note: this work is going to focus on Tom and his obsessive characteristics more than his slippery smooth aspects.

Tom Riddle had never met such an infuriating young woman before. Not that he didn't find the opposite sex in general to be infuriating and annoying, but Hermione Moreau had quite the nerve to call him out in such a way. Oh, sure, it was well-mannered and whatnot, and probably not uncalled for, but still! The little French girl had quite the nerve. 

He grit his teeth and threw a rather harmless hex at his nightstand that caused the drawers to fly out, making papers flutter and scatter about the rather bare bedroom.

Not that the state of the room really mattered; Tom Riddle lived the bachelor life and it fit his agenda rather well. When he wasn't convincing dimwitted wizards and witches to part with their expensive family heirlooms at Borgin and Burke’s, he was busy running meetings with his Knights at Abraxas Malfoy’s. Yes, Tom Riddle was quite satisfied with his life, and he had a good feeling that if he kept on the same path he'd started down that everything would play to his advantage. 

Besides, women were… insipid. He'd had enough of them during his time at Hogwarts to last a lifetime; sure, they were good to satisfy the carnal needs that even he couldn't ignore (much to his chagrin), but beyond that… they were next to useless. And they were prone to developing attachments, which were always at least mildly annoying. 

But that girl! That… infuriating girl! 

He knew that they were lying: no one from France would have such heavy English accents, with or without an English nanny. And the blond with her, her “cousin,” looked so very much like Abraxas that there was no way there wasn't some sort of relation there. 

And the way she carried herself! She'd been so confident, so forward; it was almost as if…

As if she came from a different time. 

Tom could have hit himself. It all made perfect sense. The three of them had come from the future, probably on Albus Dumbledore’s orders, to try and finish him before he could accomplish his goals. It almost made him laugh; the fact that the old fool thought that a silly girl and two blokes could polish him off was utterly ridiculous. Clearly the Dumbledore of their time was even more useless than he was in his. 

His eyes glanced over to the simple desk, where a roll of parchment sat rather unceremoniously on top of it. He’d read the contents of it earlier in the day when it had arrived; Headmaster Dippet had invited him to reapply for the position of Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, as their current teacher of the subject was on the way to being sacked. 

It was a tempting offer. 

While he saw a fair few artifacts come his way through Borgin and Burke’s, he would have the summers off to look for objects that were of special interest to him, and the teaching position gave him the opportunity to… mold young minds and influence students as he saw fit. Others may have condoned that idea, but Tom saw nothing wrong with it; after all, Albus Dumbledore used his position in Hogwarts to do the same thing. 

However, if the mystery time-travelers were working with Dumbledore, there was no guarantee he couldn't get them into the castle. They looked young enough to pass for students. 

Still, Hogwarts was the closest thing to a home he'd ever had. And he would not let Albus Dumbledore think he was afraid of him just because he had sent three incompetent young people from the future after him. He had two weeks to respond to the letter; in the mean time, he was going to get down to the bottom of the mystery that was Hermione Moreau and her companions. His lips curled slightly at the thought of Hermione under the influence of his Cruciatus, which had grown even stronger since he had left Hogwarts. Or perhaps he would Imperius her, and have her on her knees. It was a pretty picture, her on her knees. It would be so sweet to teach the impudent girl her place. 

With a few schemes swirling in his mind, Tom made his way to work. He disappeared into the back after greeting Burke, and began to put on the stupid little apron that he had to wear. As soon as his sleeves were rolled up, he started to go out front, but Borgin needed him to move some boxes around. The old man was perfectly capable of doing it himself, but he loved to make Tom do it by hand.

“You'll thank me later,” he chuckled. 

Tom was never sure what he would be thanking him for; making him have to let out the sleeves in all his shirts? It had been while hauling boxes about that he’d first ripped a shirtsleeve down the seams. 

He could faintly hear a bell tinkle from the front, and he heard Burke launch into action. 

“… looking for a time-turner…”

Tom perked up. He would recognize that annoying little voice anywhere. Part of him was surprised; he would never imagine that silly little Hermione Moreau would have the nerve to wander down Knockturn Alley, let alone late at night. Curious, he crept toward the door into the shop and listened in to her conversation with Burke.

“Yes, that's the one,” she stated as she looked down into the box.

“An interesting piece, Miss Moreau,” Burke informed. “The wizard we bought this off of claimed this to be the personal time-turner of none other than Salazar Slytherin himself. Legend has it that the man himself put a charm on the device, so that individuals who could be of use to his heir would be sent back in time. Of course, Salazar Slytherin has no living descendants, so it works like a typical time-turner, I assume. No one has dared to touch it, though, because you never know.”

Tom peeked around the corner, trying to read her expression. She looked puzzled, and he wondered why. 

Borgin called for Burke from the back of the shop, and the older man frowned, but grinned slightly when his eyes landed on Tom. “I must go back and speak with my associate, but please, let our shop-boy, Tom, assist you,” he stated as she hurried back. Tom slipped out of the back and put on his best grin, ready to go in for the kill.

*****

If Hermione had found Riddle attractive before, he was just sinful when she laid eyes on him in Borgin and Burke’s. He looked a little sweaty, like he'd been working in the back on something, and his hair was mussed. With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows and his little apron, he looked so quaint and wholesome; a nice, hardworking young man.

And she knew better. 

He took the box from her hands, examining the time-turner quietly. “I heard Burke telling you the story behind this, Miss Moreau,” he hummed. “Do you believe it?”

“That it was Slytherin’s?”

“That there are no more descendants of Salazar Slytherin,” he elaborated.

Their eyes locked and she shuddered. Part of her, the reckless Gryffindor in her, wanted to tell him that she knew everything, but her sensible side advised her against it.

“I suppose it's possible,” she hummed. “With all that inbreeding in pureblood families, I'm sure there's someone somewhere who shares blood with Salazar Slytherin.” Cautiously, she turned her back on him and strolled through the shop. Her eyes flitted about, and even though the place was filled with dark objects, she had to admit it was interesting. Eventually, her gaze settled on a hand mirror. Riddle was right at her side, and raised a brow.

“You have a good eye,” he told her. “It's like a smaller version of the Mirror of Erised. Go ahead, pick it up.” Hermione didn't trust him, but found herself reaching for the handle.

She was surprised when he hadn't been lying. She saw herself, working away in an office in the Ministry, busy and successful. The image in the looking-glass rippled slightly when Riddle looked over her shoulder, and she saw something that she definitely did not desire. Her hands were tied above her head on a bedpost, and Riddle was thrusting roughly into her as she arched and writhed…

“Fascinating,” she managed as she put the glass down. 

“Indeed,” he hummed, a hint of mischief in his voice. 

“Excuse me, Mr. Riddle, but I'm afraid I must be going. It's rather late and I know my brother and my cousin will be expecting me back at our room,” Hermione told him quietly. Riddle purposefully blocked her way out of the stores and his arms crossed over his chest.

“So you won't be making any purchases today, Miss Moreau?” 

Hermione smirked up at him and nodded. “Not today, Mr. Riddle. Thank you though, for showing me around the shop. I felt much safer here knowing your capable hands were around to tell me what's what,” she grinned before slipping past him and out onto the street. Her heart was pounding in her chest. She knew he was suspicious. Honestly, Hermione was surprised he had let her out of the shop at all; part of her had been expecting him to hex her right then and there. 

When she got back to the Leaky Cauldron, she went back up to the room. Harry and Draco were sitting on the opposite ends of the bed. Draco was reading the paper, while Harry was composing a letter that she could only imagine was for Professor Dumbledore. 

“Where have you been, Granger?” Draco questioned without looking up from his paper. 

“Oh, nowhere,” she sighed as she stripped down to the shift she wore under her robes and climbed in between them and got under the covers. Harry turned and looked at her.

“Hermione, did you go to Borgin and Burke’s?” he asked. 

“No…”

Harry sighed in exasperation and ran a hand through his hair, which was back to its usual messy state. “Hermione, we said we would go there together! You… he could know everything now! You don't know him as well as I do, and you could mess up,” he huffed.

“Harry, I didn't do anything. I barely interacted with him,” she stated. “But I learned some interesting story about the time-turner that sent us back.”

Both Draco and Harry perked up in interest, and Hermione smirked smugly. She then recounted her adventure at Borgin and Burke’s—leaving out the strange mirror moment with Riddle, of course—which in turn made both Draco and Harry look happy and angry.

“So we’re stuck here,” Harry surmised.

“Probably,” Hermione confirmed with a bit of a wince. “But what I can't wrap my head around is why we would be sent back here to try and help Voldemort. Everyone knows he was probably already past the point of no return while at Hogwarts.” Draco shrugged and leaned back on the bed.

“Well, he only has two horcruxes right now,” he pointed out. “Perhaps we’ve caught him at a turning point of sorts. Maybe… Maybe we were sent back here to try and help him down a different path.”

Harry snorted derisively at the thought. “He's already killed three people, four people, actually. Myrtle was killed by the Basilisk he let loose in the school.”

“And you genuinely think that Moody or Snape never killed someone?” Hermione asked.

“Don't compare him to them!”

“I'm just asking a valid question.”

“Merlin, and I only thought you were unbearable towards me,” Draco muttered.

“Shut up, Malfoy!” Harry and Hermione yelled.

Harry took his glasses off and pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. “We can't agree why we’re here, so can we please just stick to the plan? Let's just lay low and wait for Quidditch tryouts, try and get settled somewhere better than this, and then we can start sticking our noses in Voldemort’s business, yeah?”

Hermione wasn't pleased—she wanted to get down to the bottom of things—but she simply nodded and settled in for bed.

*****

Armando Dippet looked up from the book cracked open on his desk at the sound of a knock. “Come in, come in!” he exclaimed. Unsurprisingly, Albus Dumbledore stepped into his office, and the expression on his face could be best described as grave. “Albus! Wonderful to see you, as always. What is the matter?” The Transfiguration professor sat down opposite the Headmaster, his hands folded neatly in his lap.

“I've heard that you have offered the Defence Against the Dark Arts position to Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore stated. “Armando, you know—“

“I know you've never really liked the boy,” he hummed. “Albus, you know he has great practical knowledge on the subject; what with his journeys through the continent and now his employment at Borgin and Burke’s. I think he would be refreshing to have at the school.”

Dumbledore frowned. Dippet had always been charmed by Riddle, just like the majority of the staff at Hogwarts.

“He is too young,” he retorted. “Much too young to be in charge of a classroom.”

“He has always been older than his years,” Dippet mused. “If it makes you feel better, he has not responded directly to my letter—“

 _Knock knock_.

The door creaked open slightly and Dumbledore watched in horror as none other than the object of his dissent stepped into the room. Tom Riddle was standing just past the threshold, wearing black robes, a small smile on his face that seemed woefully fake. The young man’s gaze landed on Dumbledore for a split second, and his smile turned into a smirk before turning back to Headmaster Dippet.

“I hope I'm not interrupting,” he stated smoothly. “But you said I was welcome to come back to school if I had any questions about the offered position?”

Dippet rose to his feet rather unsteadily and managed a smile. “Of course, my boy, of course! Come sit; Professor Dumbledore and I were just discussing some of his… hesitations about hiring you, but I assured him that I have the utmost confidence in you,” he said merrily. “Now what are your questions, Tom?” 

Dumbledore tried his best not to glare at the young man who sat down with ease opposite the Headmaster.

“Well, professor, I was wondering… I wasn't really wondering about the job so much as I was wondering more about the nuances of it. Specifically, how I would handle my career and a wife at the same time?” he raised a brow. Dumbledore tried to hide his shock; he wondered what poor girl had been convinced into marrying Tom of all people. 

Dippet, however, beamed. “A-ha! Of course, that's a valid question! May I ask who the lucky girl is?” 

“You wouldn't know her.” Tom smiled. “In fact, she really… she doesn't know it yet.”

Dumbledore did not like the sound of that, and he could not put kidnapping past Tom. It seemed right up his alley. Or, better yet, he could see him trying to Imperius a poor girl into marrying him. Still, Dippet was amused, and summed Tom’s statement up to one of determination.

“Well, I don't know why she wouldn't accept you, Tom.”

“Thank you, Headmaster.”

“But as far as handling a wife and your career, I would say it's quite possible. You'll be away from her a fair bit, but you can always get away during the weekends and visit her,” Dippet said. 

“Thank you, Headmaster,” Tom rose to his feet. “Now, I suppose, it's time to try and get the girl.” His gaze flitted to Dumbledore and Albus could have sworn he saw a sinister glint in them.

*****

Why she had entered Borgin and Burke’s that following morning was beyond Hermione. But nevertheless, the bell tinkled over her head as she walked into the store, and she was greeted by none other than Voldemort himself. He was cleaning a glass display case, by hand, and Hermione tried not to gawk for a moment before regaining her composure. With a smirk, he looked up at her, his wavy dark hair falling in his face from working.

“Have you changed your mind?” he inquired. She watched as he straightened to full height and strode over to her with a swagger that was almost painful to watch it was so smooth and predatory.

“I think I would like the hand-mirror,” she told him. 

He smirked and strode off in the direction of the object in question, and returned with it in hand. “Would you like to look in it again? To make sure you're pleased with it?” She felt her breath hitch in her throat as he stepped closer to her and placed the mirror in her hand. They peered in it again, and her face grew hot. 

The vision in it that morning was not nearly as vulgar; he had his arms wrapped around her as he kissed her neck, and… and her belly was round with child.

They both stepped away then; her face grew hot, and Voldemort looked almost livid.

“I have a feeling there's something about this mirror that you haven't told me,” she stated. “Do you care to elaborate, Mr. Riddle?” 

“Rumor has it that this mirror also can serve as a crystal ball of sorts,” he plucked it from her grasp and recoiled when a serpentine gaze met his own when he looked in the mirror. “Of course, I take very little value in Divination. People can make their own destinies.”

Hermione found that shocking, considering how obsessed with prophecy his older self became.

“I agree,” Hermione mumbled. 

They stared at each other for a moment before propriety returned to them, and Riddle moved behind the main counter. He pulled out a simple, nondescript, brown box and placed the mirror inside. Hermione paid him for it, and he handed it over with a small smile.

“Enjoy your purchase, Miss Moreau. I'll be curious about what you see.”

And Hermione understood that she would be seeing him again soon, no doubt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, yes. Everyone is cautious when it comes to Tom. Except Hermione! Of course. 
> 
> Don't forget to comment/leave kudos!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione has another run-in with Tom Riddle. She thinks she can outsmart him, but not without a little history lesson...

But Saturday came without another encounter with Tom Riddle, much to Hermione’s relief. She got up bright and early with Draco and Harry, and they apparated to the Puddlemire United Quidditch stadium. Surprisingly, Draco seemed extremely nervous as they walked into the stadium and joined the group of young men who were all trying out for the team. 

“Excuse me, are you trying out?” A young man who looked a bit like Oliver Wood asked.

“Um, no. I'm just here to support my brother and my cousin,” she smiled easily, smoothing the skirt of her pale pink dress. However, the young man seemed unimpressed.

“No spectators during try-outs,” he stated. “I'm going to have to ask you to leave.”

Hermione bit her lip and looked at Draco and Harry. They nodded to her, signaling that they would be okay without her, and she left. There wasn't much to do around the stadium, so she apparated back to Diagon Alley and decided she would spend her day in Flourish and Blotts. She wandered deep into the stacks on the second floor, grazing the book titles absentmindedly. Most of the books she recognized from her own time, meaning that the wizarding world didn't publish many new books.

“If you want some more illuminating titles, I would suggest the secondhand shop down the street.”

The book Hermione had pulled out fell to the floor with a dull thud as she froze. She had no idea how he had found her, or how long he'd been following her, but she was even more terrified. As she turned to face him, she tucked a stray curl behind her ear and managed a small smile.

“And why would that be, Mr. Riddle?” she inquired, raising a brow. “It wouldn't have to do with there being more volumes on dark magic there, would it?” 

Tom’s pleasant, charming expression seemed to falter for a moment. His eyes flashed red and Hermione resisted the urge to back up against the bookshelves. Her hand searched for her wand in the pocket of her robes. 

“Spoken like an insolent warrior for the light,” he scowled at her. 

“So you are interested in the Dark arts,” she sniffed. “Why am I not surprised? I suppose you were in Slytherin too? Everyone at Beauxbatons knows that's the worst house—“

All of a sudden, he slammed her into the bookshelf, his hand wrapped tightly around her throat. 

“You won't speak about things you know nothing about, you stupid girl,” he snarled. His eyes were probing hers as he pinned her there. “Tell me, Hermione. Why were you interested in Slytherin’s time-turner when you came into Borgin and Burke’s?”

“No… reason…” she rasped, trying to hold back a triumphant smirk as she grabbed her wand and cast a nonverbal spell at him. It propelled him backward, and his back slammed into the opposite shelf. Hermione grinned in triumph, but it didn't last long. He threw a curse at her that she barely had time to block. Riddle was much quicker than anyone she had ever dueled before, and he was far more powerful. She hardly managed to cast shield charms to block his spells, let alone throw offensive spells of her own. 

Hermione tripped over something on the floor and her focus was shattered for just a moment. It gave Riddle just enough time to cast a Cruciatus, and Hermione vaguely realized that he hadn't even needed to say the words. 

If Bellatrix Lestrange’s Cruciatus curse had been unbearable, then Tom Riddle’s was truly excruciating. Her lips contorted in a silent cry of pain, and tears streamed down her face as she writhed and twitched. He jabbed his wand toward her and the pain intensified. Hermione felt like every bone in her body was shattering, and her limbs buckled in strange positions. 

“Ah, this is even better than I'd imagined,” Riddle chuckled. 

Just when she thought she was going to break, Riddle stopped. Hermione let out a sob of pain, grasping the floor as her body trembled uncontrollably. 

“Monster…” she muttered. As she looked at him, she could almost see the foul, serpentine figure of his future. Hermione grasped her wand weakly, and struggled to her feet. Riddle seemed alarmed at her strength, as if he had never imagined some girl could handle his power. Her knees shook, and she collapsed against a bookshelf. He saw it as an ideal opportunity to probe her mind, but at the sound of people coming up the staircase, he jumped into action. Grabbing Hermione’s wrist, he apparated them out of the building with a loud crack.

Hermione was too dazed to pay much attention to where they were, and pushed him away from her, only to fall to her hands and knees. Her body was still trembling in the aftermath of the Cruciatus, and she could only imagine what was coming next.

“Don't touch me,” she spat when she felt his hand on her back. 

“I hope you realize you gave me no choice,” he told her as he picked up her rather weak form and placed her in a bed. 

“You always have a choice,” Hermione grumbled. 

He chuckled and pulled up a simple, old quilt. She was too weak to protest, and let her gaze flit around the rather spartan room. Hermione assumed they were at his flat; that would make the most sense, at least. It made her cringe slightly to think she was in his bed. 

“I don't like people who try to disobey me,” he remarked. “Nor do I like people who dare to assume things about me.” 

“That still doesn't make using the Cruciatus curse right,” she argued, though her voice was soft and raspy. “You could have incapacitated me with some other spell or hex; it didn't have to be that one.” He raised a brow and sat down on the edge of the bed. 

“Perhaps,” he mused. “But I wanted to win. And sometimes winning requires rule breaking.”

“Then it's not winning. It's cheating.”

Tom smirked. “It's all a means to an end, Miss Moreau.”

“Such a Slytherin,” Hermione muttered under her breath. She decided then and there she was going to more or less forgive Malfoy for being such an unbearable prat because Voldemort made him look like a sweetheart.

“I find it fascinating that you are so familiar with Hogwarts’ houses,” he hummed as he brushed back her hair. A smirk appeared on his face when she recoiled. “You speak like a blasted Gryffindor.” Hermione bit her tongue. Whatever happened, she would not tell him who she was or where she came from. It was too dangerous for him to know anything about the future.

“Our nanny was a Gryffindor,” she lied. 

“I'm sure,” Riddle hummed in amusement. “Why do you feel the need to lie to me, Miss Moreau? Even now, after I've shown you what happens to those who displease me?” 

“I'm protecting you from yourself,” Hermione said. It was technically true. 

He said nothing more and disappeared through a door. Hermione tried to get up and get out of bed, but her arms shook when she tried to lift herself up. With a little huff, she crumpled back down onto the mattress. Riddle returned, carrying a small tea tray with two mugs. He offered one to Hermione, and she frowned.

“I won't poison you. That's a coward’s weapon,” he scoffed. “Go on, it’s hot chocolate.” 

“Give me one good reason I should trust you,” she raised a brow.

“If I wanted you dead, you would already be dead,” he remarked, his face stony and reserved. “Now drink. You'll feel better.” Hermione took the mug and brought it to her lips. Whatever he had done to the drink, it was the most delicious thing she had ever tasted. The thought almost made her giggle; was Lord Voldemort handy in the kitchen? It was almost absurd. 

But… it made sense. He lived on his own for most of his young adult life; it would be practical for him to learn his way around a kitchen. And she was beginning to see that Tom Riddle was fairly practical.

“The secret is a bit of cinnamon,” he noted as if he had read her mind earlier. 

“Were you reading my mind?” Hermione accused quickly. 

“No,” Riddle looked down at his own mug. “I was not. I'm very good at reading people, you see, even without having to go into their minds. I will not perform Legilimency on you unless you give me permission.” Hermione almost snorted; the fact that performing an Unforgivable was okay in his book, but he felt like he was prying while using Legilimency spoke volumes. 

“So do you want to be a politician then?” she inquired. Since she was stuck there, she figured she might as well learn about him.

“Something like that,” he responded as he brought his mug to his lips. 

Hermione sat there silently, wondering what his next step was. Part of her had a strange feeling he hadn't been planning to take her to his flat; that it had been a quick reaction to the approaching individuals in Flourish and Blotts. 

“Mr. Riddle, are you… going to… kill me?” Hermione was trying to keep up the appearance of her being somewhat naive and innocent. “B-Because if you are—“ She stopped talking as he had begun to laugh at her. “What's so funny?”

“I have no intention of killing you. And considering you're back to being your insufferable self, I suppose I can send you on your way.”

He helped her to her feet, and apparated her down onto the street outside the Leaky Cauldron. 

“If you say a word of this to your brother or your cousin, then I can promise you, Miss Moreau, that I will kill you,” he murmured in her ear before pulling away from her, smiling, and fading into the crowded street. Hermione shuddered and entered the Leaky Cauldron. Draco and Harry weren't back yet, so she decided to lay down and rest for a bit until she felt better. The hot chocolate had helped a bit, but she could still feel the tremors deep within her body.

*****

Tom Riddle had never written so fast in his life. The rolled up piece of parchment that he was currently securing to the foot of a barn owl contained his acceptance of the teaching position at Hogwarts. He knew he'd had enough of being a stupid little shop-boy, and he wanted so much more. And being a professor would give him the opportunity to recruit much more freely for his Knights, whom he was considering calling Death Eaters instead.

And, a little part of him thought, Hermione would like him much better as a teacher. 

It felt stupid. It felt wrong, but a little part of him had fallen for her. And when she had called him a monster, it had struck a nerve. He knew what he was, and he'd accepted it a long time ago. But to hear it fall from her lips… it had awakened something deep within him. 

So he resolved himself to be her monster. 

He would be her waking nightmare, her ever-constant terror. It would be difficult, of course, but he would do it. And she would either succumb to him or he would have to result to desperate measures. Tom hoped he wouldn't, but it would still be fascinating to see her under his Imperius. He had never seen someone withstand his Cruciatus for as long as she, which made him suspect that she had experienced the effect of a powerful curse before. It was fascinating, and he wondered where she had been exposed to such magic. Surely not at Beauxbatons; they were even more strict than Hogwarts on the education of such matters. Of course, he doubted she had ever attended the school. 

So what in the future had led to her experiencing the effects of the Cruciatus curse?

He didn't know, but he was determined to find out.

*****

When Harry and Draco returned from try-outs, they were both surprised to find Hermione laying in bed, fast asleep. They both were shocked, considering it was about suppertime and Hermione had never been the type to need a nap. 

“Hermione?” Harry sat down on the edge of the bed in concern. “You alright?”

She rolled over on her side and smiled sleepily. “Never better,” she mumbled. “How did try-outs go?” Harry’s brows furrowed in concern at how drowsy she seemed, but as she sat up she seemed better.

“Harry got the spot,” Draco stated. “And I'm his alternate.”

“That's great!” Hermione exclaimed. “We need to go out and celebrate. A nice dinner, maybe some champagne… you two deserve it.” She got to her feet and got around, and the three of them went to a nice restaurant that hadn't been open in the nineties. 

“So what did you do all day?” Draco asked after he took the liberty of ordering the restaurant’s finest vintage of champagne.

“Oh, not much. I went to Flourish and Blotts but I couldn't find anything…” Her gaze wandered around the restaurant, but as soon as she began to look she regretted it. Tucked away in a quiet corner, none other than Tom Riddle was sitting with a witch that was much, much older than he was. She was clearly smitten with him, and he was smooth and charming as he filled her wine glass. Something inside of her curdled when his gaze flitted to her and he just grinned. 

“Our Hermione went to a bookshop and didn't find anything?” Harry teased. “‘Mione? Earth to Hermione…” He turned in his seat and followed her gaze. 

“Oh, ew,” Draco wrinkled his nose. 

“Why am I not surprised?” Harry sighed. While Draco seemed repulsed by the fact that Tom Riddle was wining and dining with some old witch, it made sense to Harry; all his financial support had to come from somewhere other than the Malfoys,

“Unbelievable,” Hermione muttered. Part of her wondered if the old hag would be pleased to know her handsome date had performed an Unforgivable on a young lady just hours ago.

They ate their meal in relative silence, and it was uninterrupted until Riddle got to his feet with the old witch and made his way over to them. His gaze was on Hermione, harsh and demanding, and she tried her best not to squirm nervously. “Mrs. Rowle, may I introduce you to Hermione and Harry Moreau, and Draco Chevalier?” he smiled coldly. 

“Charmed, I'm sure,” the old woman looked long and hard at Hermione. 

“I'm surprised to see you out, Tom,” Hermione hummed. “I would have thought Borgin would have had you hauling boxes and whatnot all night…” She raised her champagne flute to her lips to hide a smirk. 

“Are you and Mrs. Moreau… familiar with each other, Tom?” Mrs. Rowle inquired. 

“It's Miss Moreau, Mrs. Rowle. She and Harry are brother and sister,” Riddle corrected for her. “And Hermione and I are simply acquainted after she wandered into the shop one evening. Nothing more, I can assure you.” His eyes roamed over Hermione before turning his attention to the cranky hag on his arm. “Shall I escort you home, Mrs. Rowle?” 

“Oh, of course, Tom, of course. Such a nice young man…” the witch praised as they left.

“Have a nice evening, Hermione.”

Suddenly, Hermione didn't have much of an appetite. She pushed her plate away from herself and sat with her drink in her hand, glowering quietly. Draco had never seen her so murderous, and he'd been on the receiving end of her fist before. 

“Don't let him get to you,” he whispered to her. “He's just trying to mess with your head.”

“Thank you, Captain Obvious,” she grumbled. 

But he was getting to her. Hermione had underestimated just how well Voldemort could play the game, especially when he had his looks to play into his strategy. She would have to start working on her own strategy, because if he thought she was going to be the first one to break he was sorely mistaken. Of course, she didn't have any idea what his weaknesses were. 

“Harry, when we get back to the room, you're going to tell me everything you know about Tom Riddle Sr., okay?” she decided. If she was going to play with Voldemort, she was going to play hardball. 

“Hermione…” 

“You're going to tell me,” she threatened. “I think I have an idea. It's… It’s absolutely mental, but I think it will work.” 

Draco stuck a fork into his dessert and glowered at her slightly. “I really hope whatever your plan is won't get us all killed. I for one want to try and survive long enough to potentially go home,” he muttered. “Though I'll let it be known I won't have any regrets about leaving you two for dead if it means I can go home.”

“Charming,” Hermione drawled. “You two won't be at risk. The only person who will be in danger will be me, and if I'm successful… well, this should be interesting.”

So when they returned to the Leaky Cauldron, Harry told her everything he knew about Tom Riddle Sr. She learned all about Merope Gaunt’s fixation on him, and her actions using a love potion to make him run away with her. Harry explained the circumstances of Riddle Sr.’s death, and Hermione frowned slightly.

“I can't believe that,” she said. “Riddle Sr. had to have done something to elicit such a response.”

“Hermione, you know how Voldemort is. He didn't need a reason.”

“But I'm just saying,” Hermione huffed. “Muggle or not, Voldemort had to have been curious about his father. To learn he was alive and resettled at home must have been at least a little exciting, and… and maybe there was a small part of him that thought that his father would have taken him in.”

“You can think that, Hermione, but I doubt it,” Harry sighed. “Now come on; Draco and I need to go to bed so we can get to practice tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't forget to leave kudos/comments!

**Author's Note:**

> Ah yes, the classic meet-cute that Tom and Hermione could never get right to save their lives. Of course.
> 
> Don't forget to leave kudos/a comment!


End file.
